Hung

Thank you not being the same thing as signed in blood, but there’s no stopping Lola. She marches over to the porch hanging off the front of her cabin and retrieves a large, pink sign. It’s huge, but lighter than it looks—kind of like the men in my life. They’ve been well-hung but light on emotions and feelings. Olivia winks at me, while I wonder if there’s a way to slink back to my cabin. I miss my stupid, lumpy mattress something fierce. Instead, I read obediently.

Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

Cut it off. No texts, no tweets, no Facebook pokes, pings, or any other blip or beep on the social media radar. Distance is your new best friend and beer goggles have nothing on your ability to overlook the 1001 reasons that relationship was doomed.

Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!

No negative thoughts. Own your self-worth. Move out of the hermit shell and back into the real world. It's time to talk to people.

Be honest. Acknowledge why you broke up—and rip the Band-Aid off that sucker.

It’s all about you. Self-improve, shop, and be nice to yourself.

Get back out there.

Onward! Upward! Don’t look back. You’ve come this far, now be open to the possibilities.

“Are we on Step Seven?” Lola stabs the poster with her index finger and stares at me. Which is pointless. I am not the kind of person who remembers numbers. Or order. I can barely deal with the curveballs life has been lobbing at me lately, so I haven’t been paying too much attention to steps one, two, and whatever. I’ve just been using the time to catch my breath and lay low.

“No clue,” I lie.

Still…

I read the rule that Lola’s now tapping with a dramatic finger. Step Seven. Get back out there. Uh, no. I’ve been doing my very best to stay right in here. Undercover. Sotto voce. Not drawing attention to myself. Except for yesterday’s slip up, the little voice in my head chimes in. The slip up where you accidentally on purpose gave tongue to Mister Hotshot.

Yeah. Except for that.

“Class?” Lola points to Olivia, who’s looking doubtful. I suspect she’s the kind of person who will still be able to do calculus proofs when she’s ninety.

“We’re not on Step Seven,” Olivia admits.

“But Sarah Jo has skipped ahead on us.” Lola winks at me. She’s not mad—just giving me a hard time. “She locked lips with a very sexy hotshot at fire camp yesterday, and then she kept the details to herself.”

Pick, not the Douche. I inhale deeply and nearly choke on a nose-full of smoke. I’ve done plenty of things I regret in my life, but strangely enough, kissing Pick is not one of those things. Not even close.

“I’m not getting back out there,” I say firmly.

“But you did kiss the boy.” She whips her phone out of her pocket and holds it up so I can see the screen.

FYI? When you kiss a guy in public with a half-dozen cooks egging you on? You should expect to end up on the Internet. So I’m not surprised, although I’m not trying too hard to see the evidence with my own eyes. I don’t even like my own photos. I doubt I’ll like watching myself kiss any better. Fortunately, my face is mostly obscured in the footage.

“Guilty as charged.” I’m not convinced that confession is good for the soul. Frankly, I’ve been happier telling nothing to anyone.

“Was it good?” Lola passes her phone to Olivia. I think about trying to wrest it away from her, but I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass. Plus if Lola has the video, it’s undoubtedly all over the Internet—or at least the local Facebook pages.

Olivia grins. “You can see that for yourself.”

“Cannot.” I give in and grab the phone.

Whoever shot this was expecting it. In the first frames, I’m standing with my butt to the videographer, who shoots over my shoulder as I strut up to Pick. He’s so damned gorgeous. Even all mussed and sooty from the monster forest fire he’d just spent hours fighting, he looks ready for some hot loving. He’s big and built, and he moves with that easy grace some large men have. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. If I didn’t want to kiss him again so badly, I’d resent that.